Truth in Advertising
by LadyDivine91
Summary: When Gabriel sends Aziraphale an asinine assignment, Crowley jumps on board to help. Luckily, it happens to require his special brand of expertise. Aziraphale x Crowley
1. Chapter 1

"Wut's that?" Crowley asks, falling beside Aziraphale on the bookshop sofa as the angel begins to slice open a box – a large, square box delivered by the International Express Man. They haven't heard from him in a while seeing as Heaven doesn't send Aziraphale too many assignments anymore, so of course, this one caught Crowley's attention immediately.

"It is yet one of another ways in which Gabriel has decided to bog me down with trivialities in an attempt to punish me for helping thwart the end of the world."

A fire-red eyebrow arches up to Crowley's hairline. "Come again?"

"He's become a nitpicky bastard and he's sending me busy work," Aziraphale explains, handing Crowley a letter that came with the delivery.

"Gotcha." Crowley gives the letter a quick once over, scowling when he comes to the golden seal at the bottom, the one that reads 'Gabriel – Archangel'. "And what is he crusading against now?"

"Truth in advertising, of all things …" Aziraphale yanks open the flaps, flattening them down against the sides "… and whether or not it defies the core tenets of the ninth commandment."

"Ah - _thou shalt not lie_. A personal fave."

"He claims he's chosen areas that speak to my expertise." Aziraphale removes a mound of packing peanuts from the box and miracles them away. "_Plus_ he wants an essay."

"And what are you supposed to do to the offending?"

"Don't know, but honestly, if this isn't the most asinine assignment in the history of asinine assignments!"

"What's all in there?"

"Let's take a look." Aziraphale pulls out a neatly printed document more than a thousand pages deep, held together by a single staple in the corner, and reads the top page. "Okay, well, now this is just stupid. And _insulting_."

"What?" Crowley peeks over the angel's shoulder.

"It's a list of all the delis that claim their coffee is _the best coffee in town_."

"In London?"

"No – the _world_! Ugh! Does he expect me to try _all_ of these?"

"I suspect so." Crowley takes the block of pages from Aziraphale and flips through them, scanning rows and rows of names compiled in alphabetical order like a telephone directory. He makes his way through four hundred pages at least before he gets past the a's, then closes it with a loud _ca-thunk!_ and sets it on the floor. "Let's just cut to the chase, shall we?" He snaps his fingers. "There. They're all the best coffee in town. There is truth in advertising! Yay!"

"Wouldn't that be lying? I mean, they can't _all_ be the best."

"Possibly. But it's not a _big_ lie. Not one of the important ones. Besides, what's he going to do? _Check_? Remember what you told me? He would not lower himself to soil his celestial temple."

"True. All right then!" Aziraphale agrees brightly. "Moving on." He digs into the box, ecstatic when he pulls out the next offering. "It's a pile of books!" His eyes light up, but then go dull when he gets a look at the covers. "Written by Nicholas Sparks."

"Yikes."

"There's a Post It …" Aziraphale slips his glasses onto his nose and reads: "Principality Aziraphale – please read the books enclosed and assess if the following is true: _Nicholas Sparks is one of the world's most beloved storytellers; the voice of small-town, wholesome romance; an icon for those yearning to return to simpler times and simpler people_ \- who writes this drivel?"

"Don't matter." Crowley takes the books from Aziraphale's lap and peruses the covers. "He's ours in less than a decade."

"Is he now?"

"Yup."

"Fascinating." Aziraphale peeks over his wire rims, curious what the story is there. But he'll need to leave it for another time if he's to get all this work done. "Welp." He snaps his fingers, sending off a formal letter to Gabriel, which clearly expresses his personal opinions on the literature they sent as well as his nugget of secret intel. "There's that then."

"What else you got?"

"We've got a list of names, mortals who've been flagged as_ scammers_ for me to verify – Donald Trump, Dr. Oz, Susan Ormond … all of these people can't possibly be Nigerian princes, can they?"

"Ooo, hand that over. I'll help you with those."

"Thank you, my dear." Aziraphale passes the hefty list to Crowley and dives back into the box. "We have a few odd products …" He pulls out a spray can and reads the label. "Here's something called FlexSeal ..."

"I'm not touching that one," Crowley says, checking off names in red with his fingernail.

"This index card that just says _chiropractic medicine_ …"

"Yeah, that's complete bollocks."

"Noted." Aziraphale pulls out a jar of rancid, chunky, brownish-purple water labeled: "Jilly Juice?"

"Oh – she's one of ours. Five years."

"Excellent! This is going swimmingly! At this rate, we should be done before dinner." Aziraphale reaches back into the box, straight to the bottom, fishing around for whatever is down there that might be small and easy to manage. He pulls out a number of bizarre trinkets and talismans, different little sprays and ointments, along with a strange, thin black compact which, in its utter simplicity, seems to him the oddest of them all. "What in the world …?"

Crowley glances over at the question, only paying attention by half. "What is that?"

"I don't know." Aziraphale examines it closely, looking for a way to open it, see if there's anything inside. He finds a small indent and pushes his thumbnail into it. The thing pops open, revealing a pan of peachy-pink powder pressed inside. "It looks like …" He runs a finger through it, bringing it closer to his eyes for further examination "… makeup?" Aziraphale turns the compact over again, catching sight of a label underneath, one that blended seamlessly with the surface. He reads the writing on it – grey on black of all things - and tuts. "Good _Lord_."

"What?"

"I was right – it _is_ makeup. It says it's blush. But the color is called … _orgasm_."

Crowley's head snaps up and he chokes on air. "Wha-?"

"Why in the world would they send me this?" Aziraphale goes searching through the box for an explanation. He finds another Post It, which must have dislodged during shipping. He reads it and his eyes pop.

"What does it say?" Crowley asks, nearly tottering off the edge of his seat.

"It says – _Please evaluate the validity of this color name._ Now how in the world am I supposed to do _that_?"

Crowley grins. "Uh … I think I can help you with this one." He pushes the list he's been working through aside and grabs Aziraphale's hand.

"What … what do you mean _you can help me_? Where are you taking me?"

"My place." Crowley drags Aziraphale through the shop, snapping his fingers to open the front door and switch the _open_ sign to _closed_. "We're gonna want the space."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Summary:**_

_**As it turns out, that Orgasm blush wasn't an innocent inclusion into the box of stuff Gabriel sent to Aziraphale to evaluate. Anticipating what the Principality might do, and how that might end up, Gabriel waits patiently for any good news ...**_

"Any minute now … any minute now …" Gabriel chants while he paces, clasping and unclasping his hands, gazing periodically out the window of the high rise onto the world below. His eye pierce the building veil of clouds, hoping that any second he'll hear the good word.

The word he's been waiting to hear for most of his career as an Archangel.

Of course, aside from his personal vendettas … uh … goals … there's a great many things he has to oversee today. The general balance of good and evil on Earth, for one, takes precedence over everything. Of course, it does. That's the big picture overall – deploying angels for the sole purpose of tipping the scales in Heaven's favor.

Absolutely.

But this takes a close second. So close, the two are nearly stacked one on top of the other.

Every time a Segway zooms by or an angel walks down the hall, Gabriel finds himself jumping like a meerkat on an electric fence. Anxiety, anticipation, _excitement_ – these are not emotions he's used to carrying and yet there they are in the wringing of his hands, his rolling onto the balls of his feet, and his constant glancing out the windows as if the news will be delivered to him via golden chariot pulled across the sky by four flying white horses.

It's just that good!

But that's not what happens, and because it doesn't happen, Gabriel feels the pricking of soul-crushing defeat before Michael, approaching with a brilliantly white sheet of parchment in their hands, speaks a single word. Michael doesn't offer Gabriel the letter right off, but he can see the writing on it – that obnoxiously bubbly yet illegibly academic handwriting of Aziraphale's.

Ugh – disappointment.

Ugh – doubt.

Ugh – _rage_!

He hates suffering these human-style indignities! They're so beneath him!

What an inconvenience. He'd rather just win and get it over with.

"Did it work, did it work?" Gabriel asks, still hopeful that that gold ink on white paper marks the last progress report written by Principality Aziraphale before he plummeted into fire and darkness. A resignation, or better yet - an apology. Nothing too formal or flowery, of course. Simple, honest, and to the point suits him best. Something along the lines of:

_Dearest, most renowned, and holiest Archangel Gabriel;_

_Before this, my final missive, I've taken a moment to reflect on my wicked past, my foolish decisions, my incompetence as an angel, and I humbly plead for your forgiveness. I know now that you were right, have always been right in all things, and that I, a lowly principality, should have listened more reverently. Followed more diligently. Alas, too late have I seen the error of my ways. And with this, my last message to you, I pray you will know that as I take my place in Hell beside the bastard demon who lead me there (Oh why was I so stupid!?) that I will do naught but sing your praises during my eternal torment in my attempts to repent._

_Good bye._

_Try to think fondly of me, as I have always greatly esteemed you._

_Your loyal servant,_

_Principality Aziraphale_

_Stained with tears would be a nice touch_, Gabriel thinks as he pictures himself framing the letter and hanging it on the wall in his office, in a spot where every angel who enters would be sure to see it … and think better of disobeying him.

Whether that's what this letter is or it isn't, the smile twisting the corner of Michael's mouth gives him no clue one way or the other. What could it mean? Amusement? Satisfaction? Success? Gabriel can't read it and that drives him _bonkers_!

"Tell me it worked!"

Michael stops in front of him, fiddling with the letter in their hands – a letter Gabriel's eyes have locked on and refuse to move from.

A letter he's about to tear from Michael's hands like a lion rips out the throat of a gazelle.

"Did he _fall_?" Gabriel begs in exasperation. "Just … just say that he fell!"

"Not … quite," Michael says, relinquishing the letter.

"Not quite?" Gabriel growls. "What do you mean _not quite_?"

"See for yourself."

Gabriel grumbles in annoyance that Michael won't just tell him. He knows Michael has read it. Michael, of all angels, is a bit of a gossip – even if they ferret out information simply to keep it to themselves. They're about as sneaky an angel as Gabriel, and he respects that. He respects Michael. Admires them even.

But he's about to shove them down the escalator for toying with his emotions.

Gabriel reads through the letter, his face drawing and pinching at the same time, making him look like an underinflated basketball bouncing once on the sidewalk, then stopping with a pathetic _thunk_.

"Well … _shit_!" he spits. "Shit shit _shit_!"

_Dear Archangel Gabriel;_

_After a long and rigorous examination of the blush you so graciously sent for my perusal, I am sorry to inform you that the color Orgasm does not quite live up to its claim. However, your challenge intrigued me so that I've taken the liberty to evaluate all products and recipes that claim to be 'better than sex'. Out of six hundred and eighty three contenders (and counting!) I've discovered only five that come close, but none of them quite hit the mark. And believe me, some of them I tried twice!_

_But worry not, and trust that the search continues!_

_Thank you very much for the opportunity to evaluate these items and the validity of their claims. If you have any others, please send them down as soon as possible!_

_Or, you know, whenever you get the chance._

_Sincerely,_

_Principality Aziraphale_

Below Aziraphale's signature, a black scorch mark passing itself off as letters reads – _Anthony J Crowley, demon (and assistant)_.

Gabriel crumples the paper in his hands, the image of him framing it and hanging it on his wall in triumph replaced by the now smug faces of Aziraphale and Crowley wrapped in post-coital bliss as that insufferable angel penned this letter, fully prepared to launch into another marathon of sin the second he snapped his fingers and sent it on its way.

And to make matters worse, he can't shake the feeling that, from somewhere above him, the Almighty is watching … and snickering at him.


End file.
